Chapter 30: The Witch of the Coven
The creatures moved through Frostvale like a plague of locusts, leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake.
They seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the terror they inspired, prolonging the agony of their victims rather than granting them quick deaths.
But in the midst of all this chaos and horror, none of the combatants—neither human nor fiend—noticed the two figures who emerged from the forest at the village’s edge.
They moved with the natural grace of those accustomed to walking between worlds, their presence somehow both reassuring and ominous.
The woman was tall and elegant, her midnight-blue robes seeming to absorb the light around her. Her hair was black, and her eyes held the depth of centuries. Around her fingers, blue flames danced without heat, and the very air seemed to shimmer with barely contained power.
Beside her strode a figure clad in armor so black it seemed to drink in the darkness itself.
His helmet was crafted in the shape of a wolf’s head, and the great sword at his side hummed with its own inner light. He moved like a predator, but there was something noble in his bearing that spoke of honor as well as deadly skill.
"Shouldn’t we help them?" The armored figure asked, his voice carrying the weight of command. He was Darian, the Black Knight of the Northern Marches.
The woman—Morgana—studied the chaos with eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone to the soul beneath.
"We will," she said, her voice like the whisper of wind through autumn leaves. "But first, I must find the one who led them here. This is no random attack."